


Leave me something (to remember you by)

by Sobo_who_writes_occasionally



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Canon Era, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, M/M, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-12 02:48:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18002372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sobo_who_writes_occasionally/pseuds/Sobo_who_writes_occasionally
Summary: Enjolras, (more commonly known as "That Cinders Fella" due to his near constant allusions to the spark of revolution in his public speeches) is going to kidnap the prince.For Ethical Reasons of course!Unfortunately due to several incidents surrounding his arguing with the young royal in public places, Enjolras is not legally permitted to be within 200 feet of the prince.Although, thinks Enjolras, if the Royal Family had wanted to make sure of That, they shouldn't have made their masquerade ball open to the people.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my very first Fic on here, so I hope you enjoy! Also- I'm sorry for any inaccuracies in this, History is not my area of expertise. I've tried to keep it vauge enough to not bother anyone though!

I would begin with "Once Upon a Time" but this isnt really that kind of story. A clattering carriage thundered past the square, splattering mud and stones onto any unfortunate persons in its path. A rat in the nearby alleyway scittered to a stop, it's beady eyes reflecting the royal crest through the pouring rain. The people, huddled under the slight shelter provided by the stalls and tents in the market, carefully watched, glared at, or side eyed the vehicle depending on their respective temperaments. None however, made direct eye contact. The young man on the podium, golden hair flattened to his forehead and cheeks, had no such qualms; he raised his chin almost in challenge to whomever would dare question his right to speak. He spoke louder, almost hoping that whoever was in the carriage would hear him- he had always been taught that's it's better to shout insults to someone's face than whisper it behind their back. His Father's exact words were perhaps more akin to "Be Honest, and be True." But that's what he took from it.

"Friends!" He cried, as a Herald emerged from the carriage to nail a notice to the board. "Barriacades rose in the streets of Paris, as our Brothers and Sisters defended their rights to be Free, Their Right to Be Free to own land, to Educate and Feed their children to Live out of the Oppression forced upon us by the bourgeoisie- But The Aristocracy stretches beyond Paris! It worms it's way to the provinces, to Us! Here! Here where the Lords and Kings take their pick from our farms, pick and choose our best livestock, our crops, leaving Us their scraps!"

The crowd murmured around him, a few shouts of agreement could be heard through the rain.

"Are you not Tired? Our children go hungry so They can eat, go uneducated so They can Eat, Work Night and Day so They can eat! Tell me- How Much do they need to eat!? I say we-" "HEAR YE, HEAR YE!" Enjolras was interuppted in his speech by the King's Herald, who stood on the opposite podium, looking at him with a slightly smug expression. Desperately, Enjolras tried to retain the attention of the crowd "I say we- I say we join with Paris! We- we can-" Unfortunately, Enjolras's speeches were old hat in the town. His proclamations of the "Spark of revolution in the people!" had many people going to see "That burning Cinders Fella." As a form of cheap amusement. The Kong's Herald was rarely seen.

Combeferre, one of Enjolras's only true followers, laid a hand on his shoulder. "You've lost them, Mon ami. They Never hear from Paris, particularly when it's raining, you are here to listen to everyday." Enjolras shot him a half hearted glare as the Herald continued his Message. "All Eligable Men And Women are Hereby Invited to His Majesty's Royal Ball-" he was cut off by a surge of gasps and exclamations from the crowd. He pursed his lips in disdain before clearing his throat and continuing: "His Majesty's Royal Ball, on Sunday the 5th of June. Wherein- the Prince shall choose his intended from all those in attendance." The gasps came back Tenfold, with several shrieks of excitement ringing through the square. 

"A Ball?" Enjolras scoffed. "Typical. The people are starving so let's pacify them by letting them actually join one of the parties we spend their taxes on! Brilliant idea!"       Combeferre chuckled and folded his arms. 

"I don't see what you're complaining about, it's the closest you're ever going to get to an audience with the king."                                Enjolras froze, a wild grin slowly spreading on his face.  "You know... You're exactly right, 'Ferre.... Round up the others and meet me in the Musain in fifteen minutes! I've got an idea!"  With that, he ran off into the crowds and was lost, leaving Combeferre calling after him in the rain. 

"Enjolras! What do you mean you've got an idea?" 

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Enjolras stood in front of a gathering of his most trusted friends, Combeferre to his right, Couferac to the left, Joly and Bousset in front of him, and Jehan perched delicately on the windowsill behind them. 

"You want us to  _What?"_  Cried Couferac, before he was quickly shushed by Enjolras. 

"Kidnap the Prince, you heard me well. Now please keep your voice down!" He hissed, "The plan is thus: we go to the ball, get close to the Prince, take him somewhere private, drug him so he appears so be an inebriated friend, and then hold him for ransom, the ransom being that the king accepts our demands for the rights of the people. Once they are met, we let him go, simple as that." 

"No, not 'Simple as That', Enjolras! Have you forgotten you are not permitted to be within 200 feet of the Prince at any given time?" Enjolras rolled his eyes at Joly, thinking back to the last protest he held in Paris, how was he to know the belligerent cynic was the Prince himself? Though even if he had known, it's unlikely the outcome would have been different. The debate quickly became a verbal brawl, and a threat was made that, according to some, bordered on treason. Thanks to Bousset and Combeferre, Enjolras managed to escape jail, on the condition he remained 200 feet away from the Prince, and the entire Grantaire Family. 

"Have you forgotten, Jollly, that it's a masquerade? No one is going to be able to tell its me." 

Jehan then piped up: "Alright, supposing that works. What of the rest of us? They'll recognise you if we're together, we're a fairly recognisable bunch after all."  The others nodded, he had a point. With Joly's cane, Bousset's shining head and constant array of bruises, Courferac's bold dress sense, Combeferre's height, and Jehan in General, they were hardly inconspicuous, even in masks. 

"Fine Then," Said Enjolras "I'll go alone." 


	2. The Secondary Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantiare makes a plan too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took too long to post, forgive me. School has been hectic recently and I'm a terrible procrastinator so really I should have expected this... but alas! I did not. Anyway, voila. The second chapter.

Meanwhile, the clang of swords echoed through the gilded halls of the Palace, alerting all servants within hearing range of the need to relocate any valuable or breakable items as soon as possible, as The Prince was in a strop.   
One such servant was just tucking a particularly attractive vase into a broom cupboard when the Prince and his dearest and closest friend rounded the corner, fully engaged in their attempts to kill each other.   
There was a hint of joviality in the facial expression of Sir Bahorel, as he parried and lunged towards his friend, but the young Prince held no such friendliness in his vicious attacks and wild eyes.   
"And there is no reasoning with him at all?" Bahorel asked while blocking an especially brutal lunge (The Prince tended to fight a little dirtier than would be expected from nobility, mainly due to his having learned a great deal of his fighting skills from brawls in seedy pubs with Bahorel and the other knights. One such occasion landed him a broken nose, while another left him a slash through his eyebrow and a slight limp when he over-exerted himself.)   
"None! He is entirely-" another blow and a clash of steel- "determined to marry me off to some money-grabbing wench or a snobby noble, with no thought-" a quick dodge behind a pillar and a slash to the calf of his opponent- "to my feelings on the matter, or to my future happiness!"   
Bahorel grunted in sympathy- or perhaps exaughstion or pain it was often hard to tell- before flicking his wrist and sending Grantaire's sword sailing down the hallway and skittering towards the poor maid and her vase, who shrieked and dodged round the banister of the staircase.   
"Apologies, Mademoiselle!" Called Bahorel, before being clocked in the side of the face with an entirely unaristocratic right hook.   
Glaring, the captain of the guard snapped his saber against the young Royal's knuckles (scarred from several instances of a similar form) with a raised brow and a smirk.  
"R, we discussed your street fighting."   
" Yes, I know. Only in the street, and only where-"  
"HENRI!"   
Grantiare sighed at the sharp voice of his darling mother echoing from the top of the stairs.  
"Only where Mother won't see." With a grimace, he turned to the disappointed glare of the queen.   
"Sorry, mother. Won't happen again!"   
"It better not, Henri, or the next person throwing a punch will be me."   
"I take it I'm not to mention the hypocrisy in that?"  
"Correct. Now please, either calm yourself before the ambassador of Spain arrives, or take this to the gardens."   
The motley pair of aristocrats bowed and agreed in perfect synchronisation, and the Queen left again in perfect confidence that her request would be granted by at least fifty percent of the pair.   
Bahorel tucked his sword into the sheath at his hip, chuckling. Grantaire, seeing this, sighed and collected his blade from its place on the floor. Muttering all the while.   
"The Ambassador of Spain. You know, sometimes I wish there was actually a chance this revolution they're planning will pay off. Just so I don't have to deal with Pricks like him, God." He returned to Bahorel, who scoffed and shook his head at him.  
"In not even going to be allowed to enjoy this Ball. I'll have to dance with everyone there whether they're interesting or not, and then I'll have to sit at the banquet table with the rest of the family and nobles for the rest of the night! Bahorel, I'm going to loose my mind!"   
During This, the pair had migrated from the hall to the garden via the glass doors at the end of the corridor. (They were in the traditional Sicilian style, and painted white, and were always dazzlingly clean. The rest of the glass doors tended to get slightly dirtier the higher the windows were, but these ones, being on the regular route of the Queen, where always kept spotless.)   
"At least you'll be closer to the food. I'll have to wait in a mile long queue for a sausage."   
Grantaire snickered and nudged his arm "Not that you wouldn't go above and beyond for a good sausage."   
Bahorel laughed heartily and clapped his friend's shoulder "Not that I wouldn't, indeed! Still, I'd do anything for Madame Houcheloup's trifle..."   
At that moment, the Palace gardener approached and bowed- to Bahorel.   
"Good morning, your majesty."   
Grantaire and Bahorel shared a look, before chuckling to themselves.  
"Over here, my friend. Good morning, Sir."   
The poor gardener flushed and flapped his hands in apology   
"My deepest apologies, your Majesty! The sun was in my eyes, and Sir Bahorel and yourself are of a similar build, I was confused, Forgive me."   
"There is nothing to forgive, sir! In fact," said Grantiare with a sudden gleam in his eye "you've quite made my morning!"   
With that, he rushed a rather confused Bahorel over towards the shrubbery where they had made their schemes as children.  
"What's going on, R?"   
"Go to the Ball in my place!" Hissed Grantaire, grinning like a madman  
"What!?"   
"Listen! Dress in my clothes, wear my mask, and go to the ball in my place! I'll dress as You, and you can eat as much food as you want, and I will actually be able to enjoy myself! It's foolproof! Father won't notice, Mother will be too busy to care, and as long as I act like I at least considered a few people at the dance no one will be any the wiser! It's fool proof!"   
Bahorel was not convinced. "And what of people noticing perhaps... that I'm not You?"   
"You may as well be. As the Mr Fauchlevant said, we are of a similar build, and Lord knows you're more gentlemanly than I am- the only way they'll question your being their beloved prince is if you're too well behaved!"   
Bahorel pursed his lips and frowned.  
"You'll also get to dance with every Eligable young person in the country, and get first helpings of Madame Houcheloup's trifle."   
Bahorel's grin was wolfish and bright when he said   
"You've got yourself a deal!"

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! So, Enjolras's plot begins! The next chapter might be Grantaires point of view, I haven't quite decided. I hope you enjoyed! Please tell me what you think, or if anything should be improved!


End file.
